The pale gray horse strode leisurely into town, its black clad rider sitting
motionless upon it. The rider, a stranger to this small western town, paid
no mind to the dust clouds kicked up by the clip-clopping of his horse's
hooves, but merely sat there staring vapidly at his horse's mane, the brim
of his flat-topped preacher's hat shielding his eyes from the sun, as well
as from the gaze of curious onlookers. He, too, had a pallid look about
him, as if the sun's light could not quite reach him, and his parchment-like
skin stood in sharp contrast to his unadorned dark attire. The look in
the eyes of those he passed confirmed the presence he assumed he conveyed-
he looked like Death, the fourth horseman of the apocalypse.

The sun sank languidly beneath the velvet sky as the stranger gently slipped
from his saddle to land on the dusty hardpan below, a battered tumbleweed
crossing the street before him. With a deft, deliberate motion he cast
the reins over the weathered hitching post, brushed the trail dust from
his breeches, and headed toward the batwing doors of what appeared to be
a combination saloon/brothel. These institutions he knew to be the center
of small town business, and it was here he reckoned he'd find some business
of his own.

The building looked much the same on the outside as the countless others
he had encountered over the long years. Its carved beams and rough planks
possessed no particularly defining quality that would distinguish it from
the other such institutions scattered about the countryside. The doors
groaned slightly on tired hinges as he gently but firmly swung them inward
and stepped inside, pausing once more to reflect that the inside, too,
had no memorable characteristics. The patrons of the saloon peered at the
newcomer over worn playing cards and half-empty bottles, and quickly decided
that the man in the doorway bore the look of one who cares little about
life . . . theirs, or his own. He appeared to be an outlaw, or at least
a hired gun, as the reflected light from the gas lamps drew attention to
the blued steel of the beautiful rosewood -handled revolvers he wore tied
securely to each hip. At any rate, he carried himself as a man who knows
his body well, with lithe, fluid motions, and great confidence, yet the
hat he wore obscured his face from view. Since that implied that he wished
to be left alone, the townsfolk more than willingly acquiesced, and returned
to their business, allowing the stranger a wide berth.

As soon as everyone resumed their prior activities, the stranger silently
crossed the sawdust-strewn floor, and occupied a stool at the far end of
the bar, mutely accepting both the corked whiskey bottle and the dirty
shot glass placed immediately before him. With hands as steady as a surgeon,
he seized the bottle by the neck, and expertly measured out a shot into
the glass, which he promptly dispatched down his gullet. As he poured another
shot, the stranger glanced about the room to better take in his surroundings.
Off to his left, a smiling young man in a white silk shirt, suspenders,
and dark slacks, caressed the not-quite-ivory keys of an ancient brown
piano. Occasionally, a rather inebriated patron would cry out "Hey Callie,
play that fast one again," and the young man would smile, nod his head,
and then feverishly begin pounding life out of the worn, yellowing keys.
To his right, just opposite the batwing doors, a set of red-carpeted steps
led up to an open landing, which offered entrance to several rooms where
he periodically noticed dingy, drunken cowboys lead scantily clad painted
lady, for a hopefully pleasurable business transaction, after which the
two would soon return . . . one to the bar, the other to seduction.

Turning his gaze to the ramshackle stage near the piano player, the stranger
took note of the singer trying to ensnare the local patrons with her voice,
and perhaps earn herself a full-time position attracting customers. She
had a familiar look about her, but he could not quite understand why, until
the image of his daughter resurfaced in his mind. She had been a singer
as well, killed accidentally in a shoot-out some 23 years before. After
losing her, he had begun his wanderings, which tonight led him here. Downing
yet another shot, the stranger turned his emotionless countenance once
more to the crowd around him.

A group of gamblers at a nearby table eventually drew his interest, and
he began to pay close attention to their game. A burly, unshaven man with
long dark locks of unwashed hair hanging down onto an incongruously clean
white, open-throated shirt which was tucked neatly into pressed black pants
seemed to draw his attention in particular. On that man's hips, too, rested
a pair of rather impressive revolvers, which closely resembled a cheap
version of the ones strapped to his own. From his loud, slurred speech,
and altogether arrogant manner, the stranger deemed the man a potential
threat, promptly registered the fact, and resumed his observations of the
others. The dry click of a hammer being cocked, accompanied by the words
"You, sir, are a lying cheat, and I'll be taking my money back, thank you,"
briefly attracted the stranger's attention. One of the men at the table
he watched earlier began apologizing profusely, and then passed all his
winnings over to the owner of the voice--the gambler. The man then beat
a quick retreat through the double doors, and the stranger never saw him
again. The gambler then smiled, gently released the hammer of his revolver,
and re-holstered it, as if the entire incident never occurred. Still smiling,
the gambler then made his way to a strikingly beautiful young lady in a
long red velvet gown, with a low-cut top, and a gaudy imitation pearl necklace
with a crucifix pendant dangling at her bosom. After a few mumbled words,
and the exchange of two crumpled bills, the lady nodded her head, and allowed
herself to be led upstairs to one of the brothel's empty rooms. As he grasped
her arm and led her away, the look on her face all but screamed the pain
she felt at his grip, yet she forced a smile, and went along with him.
The stranger cared little about such dealings as this, as he had witnessed
them a thousand times before, and returned once more to his bottle.

Moments later a loud crash issued from the upstairs landing, and the young
lady burst from the door, and ran down the stairs, crying and pulling garments
around her mostly naked figure. Tears created valleys in the thick layers
of make-up plastered on her face, as she pleaded for someone to help her,
protect her, from the man upstairs. The gambler, meanwhile, stepped purposefully
from the room, and stormed down the stairs after the defenseless young
woman. She cowered, alone, in the corner of the bar and screamed, " Leave
me alone, you filthy beast, get away!" but he just grinned and came on.
" I want what I paid for darlin' ," he said, " and I fully intend to get
it." A loud CRACK broke the sudden stillness, and a fresh hand-print suddenly
appeared on the prostitute's left cheek, causing her to again cry for help
while the gambler roughly pushed her back up the stairs.

At this point, the stranger, in a voice with the power of rolling thunder
calmly ordered "Let her go." Conversations ceased, as did the piano, and
dead silence filled the room as all eyes turned to view the next events
to occur. At this, the gambler turned, briefly startled, and gazed for
a moment at the stranger's back, sizing him up. "Excuse me," he asked,
"would you care to repeat that?" The stranger sat aside his bottle, stood
up, and turned toward the man, eyes never leaving the floor, however, and
said "I said, let the girl go. Find what you are looking for elsewhere,
but let her alone." The gambler let out a raucous laugh, which was slow
to die away, shaking the amber beads of whiskey still clinging to his facial
hair to the floor. He then announced, "My business is my own to conduct,
and you'd do well to keep that in mind, friend, if you want to keep on
enjoying the contents of yonder bottle."

With that, he turned once more and resumed pushing the girl up the stairs.
The stranger, undaunted, shook his head, and loudly called out to the gambler.
" Sir. I don't believe I've made myself clear, so I'll speak slower this
time to help you understand . . . Let . . . her . . . go . . .." and with
that, he looked slowly up at the man, until their eyes locked in a penetrating
gaze, baring to each the contents of the other's soul. The gambler had
only to look at that emotionless, granite-like countenance, with its blank
eyes, cold and dead as a winter wind, before he realized that a confrontation
was imminent. In one swift motion, the gambler easily pushed the girl down
with one strong arm, and drew his revolver with the other at the exact
same time. " He's quick, " thought the stranger, "but not as quick as I,"
and in a blur of movement he, too, unholstered his pistol, took aim, and
fired. The dry click of a misfire rang in the stranger's ears just a fraction
of a second before the deafening echo of the gambler's pistol filled his
ears. Looking down, that blank, emotionless face expressed a look of wonder,
as he noted the gaping hole in his chest, and calmly observed the dark
blood issuing from within him. An instant later he collapsed in a heap
on the sawdust-scattered floor, his face lying in an unabsorbed puddle
of freshly spilled beer.

As the gambler re-holstered his pistol, once more seizing the shocked girl
and forcing her upstairs, Callie resumed playing his piano once more, this
time a lively version of "Sagebrush Memories". Mere seconds later gamblers
picked up their cards, drunks picked up their bottles, and before the undertaker
could even drag the corpse from their midst, the incident had already been
forgotten.